The Bourne Intermezzo
by Kay Linne
Summary: He took a bullet from the Russian's gun, he is injured, he is in need of medical care.  He knows of only one person who might help.  Rated for language
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: not my characters, just building on what's already owned by others. Deep apologies to Ludlum, Gilroy, Greengrass, Liman and a host of others.

A/N-- I offer this piece just because. It was written at a time when Supremacy occupied my thoughts, as we were waiting for the third installment of the Bourne trilogy. A few liberties were taken, literary license has been exercised. Story takes place right after Jason Bourne leaves Irena Neski's apartment.

Consider this an alternate universe piece, as The Bourne Ultimatum blows this right off the page. :)

* * *

I offer the lyrics to Black Lab's _This Night. _

There are things I have done  
There's a place I have gone  
There's a beast, and I let it run  
Now it's running my way.

There are things, I regret  
But you can't forgive, you can't forget  
There's a gift, that you send  
You sent it my way

So take this night  
Wrap it around me like a sheet  
I know I'm not forgiven  
But I need a place to sleep

There's a game, that I play  
There are rules, I had to break  
There's mistakes, that I made  
But I made 'em my way

So take this night  
Wrap it around me like a sheet  
I know I'm not forgiven  
But I need a place to sleep

So take this night  
And lay me down on the street  
I know I'm not forgiven  
But I hope that I'll be given some peace

* * *

Favoring his left leg, he limped along the snow covered walk, putting one foot in front of the other, taking one step at a time. He'd long since slipped into self-preservation mode. 

If he thought about it, his shoulder ached more than his knee. He'd wadded the towel tightly against the wound caused by the Russian's bullet; he was pretty sure he'd stopped the bleeding. The towel felt stiff with dried blood, and dried blood covered his hands. He kept his hands in his pockets.

He was operating on auto pilot, fighting the desire to find a place to stop, to sit, afraid that if he did, he would not get up again. He was so tired. Couldn't remember the last time he'd slept – really and truly slept, uninterrupted, both eyes closed, all night long. He longed for that deep, dreamless, non-drug-induced sleep. He'd had a few of those nights with Marie, nights when they'd spent the first hours in bed making love. He remembered how deliciously exhausted he'd felt after, as every cell in his body came to rest. She'd snuggled into his arms then, pressing her body against his, and they'd slept past dawn.

Then the dreams began. Marie was sure they were just bad dreams. He knew better. They were pieces of a mission, a mission in which he'd been involved. Dark and haunting, the dreams always ended in gunfire and rude awakening. At first they disturbed only an occasional night's sleep. During the course of the last months, they had come with increasing frequency. And even though events of the past few days had revealed the source of those nightmares, he had not yet shaken the effects of so many sleepless nights.

He knew first hand what sleep deprivation could do to a man. He felt himself dangerously close to that edge and he fought it with every breath. In desperate need of a place to hole up, to nurse his wounds and get some sleep, he had one destination in mind and would keep going until he got there.

The snow covered path he followed led him past tiny shops with glaring neon lights. The light hurt his eyes, he shielded them from the brightness. He kept moving, relying solely on his innate sense of self preservation. His vision blurred, then refocused.

The Moscow train station loomed ahead of him. Relief was a palpable thing.

He kept his head down as he entered the cavernous building, air thick and heavy with the smell of diesel oil and smoke. Train passengers milled about, voices echoing against the walls, their destinations preoccupying their thoughts. No one gave him a second glance.

He had no idea if the local constabulary was still looking for him. He'd shaken their tails earlier, given them all the slip – and had managed to provide himself with a certain amount of satisfaction, extracting his revenge on the man responsible for Marie's death.

He now knew how the assassin had found them in India. Abbott had been behind the whole set up. The killer had come for him and Marie had paid the price. His eyesight blurred with a sting of tears. He blinked rapidly and firmly changed the direction of his thoughts. What Marie's killer had been doing in Moscow was a different puzzle, but a puzzle to be set aside for the moment in favor of his own desire to stay alive.

The sign for the restroom caught his attention. He entered, passing one individual who was on his way out. Otherwise, the facility was unoccupied. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and gave them a scrubbing in the old, worn sink, washing away most of the brown residue of his own blood, erasing evidence of his injury. He pushed open his coat and tugged gently on the towel covering his shoulder. It was stuck to his wound like glue. He pulled his coat tightly about his frame. The dark material hid the blood stains, but not the pain. It was a constant thing, throbbing with each heart beat. He clamped down on the pain and left the tending of his wounds for later.

A glance in the cloudy mirror above the ancient porcelain basin gave him pause. His reflection looked as bad as he felt. He splashed water on his face and neck to help clear the cobwebs and shuffled back out into the concourse.

His luck held out – the train to Berlin was already making preparations to get underway. He stumbled slightly as he made his way up the steps to the car, clutching the return ticket in his right hand. He found an empty seat and finally allowed himself some down time. A sudden thirst hit him, and he cursed himself for his lack of thinking. He'd probably bled enough to be in need of something intravenously, but it would have to wait. He licked dry lips and swallowed hard, doing his best to keep from slipping under.

The ticket puncher appeared, and he managed to hand the man his ticket and his passport without giving away his desperate condition. He said nothing, not wanting his voice to betray him. He knew what he must look like. But his papers were in order, and once again he found himself alone in the car. He leaned back on the seat, clinging firmly to his last shreds of energy, concerned that if he let himself shut down now, he'd never finish what he'd set out to do. But his body demanded rest. Lulled by the train's motion, he succumbed to a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams and images of the past few days which left him restless and edgy.

The train slowed as its final destination neared. He roused from his stupor and, fueled by a burst of adrenalin from fear of discovery, rose from his seat. Nearly all of his muscles cried in agony. The taxi chase through the streets of Moscow had inflicted vicious punishment on his already wounded body. He forced his bruised and battered muscles to move and somehow managed to get off the train without incident.

The Berlin train station was much busier than the one in Moscow, yet once again the crowds were so preoccupied with their own worries that no one noticed how bad he looked. He moved slowly along the corridors and ramps that led to the streets of Berlin. It was early evening and he limped along, hands in pockets, energy reserves down to near zero.

It was through pure reflex that he was able to flag a taxi and give the driver a destination. The cabby shook his head a few times at the condition of his drunken passenger, but he delivered the man to the address as instructed. Bourne pulled more than enough cash from his pocket to cover the fare with a generous tip, and the taxi zipped away, leaving him standing on the walk.

The glaring red of the neon sign on the front of the building cut through the haze that surrounded his brain. He stood across the street from the Berlin Westin Grand where the Americans stayed. He knew which room had been occupied by Pamela Landy. He knew where Abbott had been staying. And he knew in which room he would find Nicky. Nicky. Perhaps the one person in the entire world who knew most of his story, not just bits and pieces. She was the key. He needed to talk with her, needed the information that he was sure she possessed.

However, their relationship had been a bit less than pleasant for her.

He remembered the first time he saw her – actually the first time he really had a good look at her. He'd gone to get answers from Alexander Conklin at the Treadstone safehouse in Paris. He knew he must have had contact with Nicky previously. After all, she handled the logistics end for the Treadstone agents. What he recalled from that Paris meeting was the look of horror on her face as he stood over the unconscious body of her boss, right after he'd pistol whipped the man.

And the second time he saw her, he again had a gun – and had held it against her head, threatening to kill her. She had cowered under his glare, weeping in fear that he really would pull the trigger. But she had not screamed, nor attempted a getaway of any kind either time. He had a pretty good idea that, regardless of her own personal safety, she could keep a cool head under fire.

He was not at all sure that she would help him. Would this third meeting be the charm? He knew he needed to apologize, and maybe that would be a start.

He used every bit of energy and stamina he possessed to gain access to the corridors near her room. His movements were slow. He felt awkward and clumsy, unable to summon his accustomed grace and finesse. But he managed to avoid detection, and found her room. It took more than one try to jimmy the door, but finally he was able to let himself in. His only hope was that she was still there, that she had not yet departed for home, wherever that was.

The room was dark. His eyes adjusted quickly. There was little evidence of occupation, only a few personal toiletries on the counter in the bathroom, and a few items of clothing draped across the bed. He imagined she'd been whisked off to Berlin without so much as a by-your-leave. No wonder the room was bare. She'd probably been given no time to pack. Was Nicky gone, or just out for shopping and supper? He hoped it was the latter.

He chose to wait for her return in a stiff-backed chair, believing its hardness would help keep him focused. He lost track of time, fading in and out. His stomach growled and his throat was dry, but he was too exhausted to deal with either of them. For the moment it felt good just to sit. He rested his head on the wall in back of the chair, only semi-conscious.

The sound of a key in the lock snapped his attention back to reality. He automatically reached for the gun that should have been tucked neatly in the small of his back, the one he'd held when he'd been inside the Neski girl's apartment. As he reached, he remembered he'd ditched it in Moscow, in a trash can outside the project housing where he'd found the girl.

His palms began to sweat. He was taking a huge risk here. If it wasn't Nicky, he'd be in a world of hurt, trying to explain his presence not only to the current occupants of the room, but to the local management and police.

The resident of the hotel room pushed the door open and flipped on the lights. Unexpectedly blinded, Bourne threw up his arm to shield his eyes. He lost his tenuous hold on his balance and tumbled from the chair, landing in a heap on the floor. Unable to catch himself, he hit hard, his injured shoulder taking the brunt of his fall. He heard himself cry out in pain as the lights went out.

* * *

Nicollete Parsons climbed the staircase of the Berlin Westin to the third floor, preferring that method over the elevator. It got her heart pumping and blood circulating and gave her time to think, to contemplate the events of the past couple days. It was hard to believe that a chapter of her life she thought forever closed had been opened once again, that she'd been whisked away from her life in Amsterdam, plunged back into the world where men like Conklin, Abbott and Jason Bourne conducted their clandestine affairs. 

Treadstone. She supposed it would always be there, haunting her.

She had just spent a pleasant enough evening, catching up with a couple of old friends who now resided in Berlin. Deputy Director Pamela Landy not only had been gracious after her ordeal at Alexanderplatz, but generous. She arranged for Nicky to stay on for several days in Berlin, at the Westin, as a thank you for her assistance. And maybe as an apology, too. It had, after all, been at Landy's insistence that she go to Berlin with them, to deal with Jason Bourne. They'd whisked her away from Amsterdam with literally no time to pack. And they'd had no compunction about sending her off to meet with Jason Bourne in the middle of the busy plaza. She shivered involuntarily, flashing back to the moments with Bourne, as he once again stood over her with his weapon trained to her head. She had been terrified, knowing full well that Bourne was capable of killing her without hesitation – and yet, here she was, still alive.

He had roughly shoved her up against the concrete and steel pylon, in her face about his involvement in the Berlin fiasco. He was incredulous when Nicky told him about the buy for the Neski files, when she asked him why he'd returned. "Last week I was 4000 miles away, in India, watching Marie die! They came for me, and killed her instead!" Even in her fear and terror, she could see the horrible hurt, the unbelievably deep ache of loss in his eyes. That's what haunted her. She could get past the anger and the threats, but she could not shake off the vulnerability of the man.

The look in his eyes still troubled her. The man did not know who he was, or how he had ended up that way. The man was trying to piece his life together from bits of memory, all the while hounded by people who wanted him dead for reasons he did not understand.

He had been a man on the very edge of sanity, eventually leading Landy and her agents on a chase through Berlin and all the way to Moscow. The agents had returned yesterday – without Bourne. And she had been smart enough to ask no questions, even though she had many.

At least they compensated her for her time. Landy had seen to it that she was well paid for her time and trouble, and she'd been able to do some shopping earlier that day. She climbed the ornate staircase with bags in both hands, evidence of a successful shopping trip.

She inserted the key to the room, opened the door and turned on the light, instantly aware of an intruder in her room. As she turned to flee, the yelp of pain stopped her in her tracks. The intruder had fallen to the floor and now lay there gasping, groaning, in obvious pain. His identity hit her like a ton of bricks.

She had the presence of mind not to scream, but quickly shut and locked the door behind her. Aware of the effect of bright lights on Treadstone agents, she flipped off the main switch, leaving a dim light on in a farther corner of the room. Even in that dim light, she recognized the man who had stood over her with a gun.

_Bourne. _

She dropped her bags and approached the huddled figure cautiously. Curled up on the floor, with knees drawn to his chest in fetal position and right hand clutching his left shoulder, Jason Bourne did not look like the dangerous man she knew him to be.

"Bourne?" Nicky was hesitant to get any closer, suspicious of his moves for good reason. "How did you get in here?" Then she noticed the blood – mostly dried and brown, with some brighter red flecks between his fingers. "You're hurt. What happened?"

Bourne managed to turn and look at her, confusion and pain written plainly on his face. She was stunned. His eyes were sunken, hollowed out, with dark circles beneath. His skin was deathly white. The man looked like he'd been through a wringer, like he was living on borrowed time.

Bourne sensed her fear. "No gun this time, Nicky," he whispered hoarsely, trying to reassure her.

She took a deep breath and knelt down beside him, gently pushing his coat back from his shoulder. "You need a doctor."

"Yeah," he agreed shakily. "I can't – stop you from calling one… " He licked lips with a dry tongue, craving water. Stifling a cough, he continued, his voice raspy. "Thing is – I'm, I'm asking you not to. I'm asking for – your help. Maybe a few hours' sleep. A little time, Nicky. A little…" He ran out of energy to speak. He knew she was scared, he knew he was the cause. He had to do more, say more, to reassure her. "Sorry. I am sorry for – the other day. I had – I – sorry." It sounded lame, but his brain refused to form more words.

Nicky stared at him for long minutes, finally managing a tight smile. "Yeah, well, we'll talk about that later. You can't stay here on the floor." She'd made up her mind. She moved around, helped him sit up. "Can you stand? Can you make it to the bed?"

Bourne nodded and with her help he managed to get upright. His legs almost gave way more than once as they lurched across the room, his injured knee refusing to support his full weight. He was grateful Nicky was there. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed, head hanging, breathing heavily, obviously hurting.

"Okay. Let's get your coat off." Suddenly Nicky was all business. She took hold of the right coat sleeve and slipped it off, pushing the garment behind him. She gently eased his left arm out of its sleeve. He bit his lip against the pain of movement, remembering to breathe again once the coat came off.

Nicky eyed the towel wadded against his shoulder, giving it a gentle experimental tug. He was too tired to hide the wince. "It's going to take some work before this can be dealt with." She paused. "I don't have a medical kit here. Will you let me run out and get a few things?" She held her breath, afraid he might not be willing to let her go now that she knew where he was. "I promise to come right back."

Bourne nodded, leaning back on the bed, closing his eyes. "Go," he whispered. "Need – need water."

Nicky nodded, letting out the breath she had been holding. Apparently, Bourne was putting himself at her mercy, making no attempt to stop her from leaving. From the looks of him, he probably couldn't stop her if he'd wanted to. Weak from loss of blood, he was more than likely suffering from serious dehydration, too.

The hotel room's refrigerator was stocked with bottled water. Nicky retrieved one and opened it while returning to her unexpected guest. He'd managed to position himself on the bed with his head on the pillows. She laid her hand gently on the man's forehead. Fever. She thought he'd felt a little warm as she'd helped him to the bed.

"Bourne, here – it's cold."

Jason moved to take the bottle from her, but there was so little strength left in his body that even his uninjured arm fell limply to his side. He shook his head. Nicky gently curled her hand under his neck, lifted his head and held the bottle to his lips, dribbling the refreshing liquid carefully into his mouth. He swallowed greedily.

"Thanks. Better," he sighed. It was incredibly better, blessed relief for his parched tissues.

"More?" she asked.

"Please." This time he was able to help hold and tip the bottle, sucking its contents dry in several long gulps.

Nicky eyed the empty plastic bottle. She got another one out of the refrigerator and set it next to the bed as she pulled on her coat. "So you're just going to let me go? I mean, I could go to the police, or Landy – any one of a number of people who'd like to get their hands on you. Our – recent relationship – hasn't exactly been a real good one…"

He opened his eyes and looked at her. "No other choice." It was an honest reply. "Do what you think is right."

"You'll be here when I get back?"

His eyes slipped shut as he replied softly, "If I had someplace else to go, I'd be there."

She nodded. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Money," he whispered. "In my coat – use it."

She picked up the garment and felt the pockets, coming up with a roll of bills of varying amounts and from various countries. She pulled the German currency from the pack and stuck the rest back into the coat. She was relieved and not a little surprised that her quick search revealed no guns. Grabbing her purse, Nicky left the room, turning out the lights on her way.

Bourne was left alone in the dark. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to relax. He had no control over Nicky and whomever she chose to tell of his unexpected presence, but it was no longer important. He'd accomplished his mission, he'd done what needed to be done, what he'd set out to do. It was time to shut down, to tend his wounds, to recover his strength. He reached for the bottle of water she'd left him, and downed nearly half of the contents. Setting it back on the nightstand, he laid back, closed his eyes and passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

He never heard her return. He woke to pain flaring from his shoulder. His eyes flew open and he gasped as Nicky began the task of tending to the bullet's passage through his body. "Fuck!" he exclaimed through clenched teeth.

"Sorry," she said apologetically as she examined the blood-soaked towel, dried and stuck tight to his skin. "There's no way this is not going to hurt." She pulled some small bottles from a bag on the floor next to the bed. Removing the cap of one, she dumped some of the contents into her palm. "Penicillin. Can you swallow a couple pills?"

Jason blinked as the question found its way into his fogged brain. _Antibiotics. Necessary to fight infection._ His body could use all the help it could get. He nodded.

"Stick out your tongue," she directed. She dropped a couple pills there and helped him with the water bottle. "Now these." She spilled more tablets into her hand.

"What?" He wasn't going to let her get away with much.

"Tylenol," she answered as she repeated the steps with the second pair of pills. After Jason swallowed, she finished, "With codeine. Might help."

"Drugging me," he accused.

"Better than a stick between your teeth while I work on this, don't you think?" she commented. Bourne tried to smile, but even the movement of those muscles caused him to wince. He decided he didn't want to move anything else until the painkillers kicked in. But Nicky had other plans.

"Can you sit up?" she asked. "We need to remove your sweater."

It was the very last thing he wanted to do. But he took several deep breaths, steeled himself and sat up with great effort. Nicky pulled the sweater and shirt from his right side easily enough, but it took a scissors to cut away the shreds of material from his left. As she stripped the fabric away, her eyes widened at the severe bruising on Bourne's arms, sides and back. Great purple blotches were already turning rainbow colors of yellow, red and blue. "Someone use you for a punching bag?" she asked.

Jason showed no sign that her question even registered. He sank back on the bed as soon as she finished, eyes shut tight, visibly trying to control the pain. Nicky had already gathered extra towels and had some soaking in hot water. Squeezing excess water from one, she applied it to Jason's makeshift bandage, working carefully along the edges, peeling back the towel as the dried blood dissolved. It only took minutes to remove the covering from his shoulder. Nicky was sure it hurt like hell. Her patient was stoic throughout the procedure, but he could not hide the whiteness of his knuckles, or the beads of perspiration that broke out on his forehead. He relaxed only as the codeine finally made its presence known in his system.

Nicky concentrated on her work. Bourne's shoulder was bleeding again, and she worked quickly, cleaning the wound as best she could. The bullet had carved a path through the flesh of his shoulder, taking a good chuck of meat with it. The furrow was deep, raw and angry-looking, warm with the heat of infection. She hoped the penicillin would curb that. She wasn't sure if it was a good thing or bad, that she still had connections in Bourne's world of clandestine ops. It had only taken a couple phone calls to find someone who was more than happy to provide her with a few drugs.

Eventually satisfied that she'd done all she could on the gunshot wound, she applied pressure with gauze pads, taping them down. "If I had a medical kit, I'd put a couple dozen stitches in this shoulder," she told him as she gathered the soiled towels. "And I'd have you hooked up to an IV in a hurry." She picked up the half empty water bottle from the night stand and handed it to her patient. "Down the hatch. And more if you think you're able."

Bourne did as she instructed, downing the remainder of the water, but shaking his head when Nicky tried to push him to drink more. "Can't," he whispered. "So – tired…" his eyes rolled back in his head.

Nicky pulled a blanket over the now-unconscious Jason Bourne, and as she did, the condition of his pants caught her attention. Dried blood crusted the waist band, more stains covered the material running down the leg. Deftly, she removed the blood-stained garment, stopping at the sight of his knee. Swollen and warm to her touch, it must have been painful to put weight on it. She shook her head. No wonder it had been difficult for him to walk. He'd twisted or jammed it good. It probably should have been iced at one point, but there was nothing she could do for him now.

Concern for her patient prompted her to turn up the temperature in the room. She covered him with another blanket and took his clothing into the bath where she ran cold water in the tub. Before tossing Bourne's pants in to soak, she checked the pockets of the garment and pulled out more cash, a Russian passport – and a picture. A picture of Jason Bourne. With a young lady. Her arms were around him – protectively. And he was actually smiling. Nicky shook her head. Marie. This was the young woman with whom Bourne had left Zurich, the young woman who had then found herself the target of a massive Agency manhunt. Apparently these two total strangers had found some common ground, had come together in a dangerous situation and survived. After all was said and done, they looked like they had discovered some peace and happiness for a while, before tragedy struck.

She stared at the picture, unable to remember ever having seen Jason Bourne smile. He actually looked happy, a totally different person from the man who had threatened her life not that long ago.

Nicky carefully placed the photo against the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed, turned the lights as low as they would go, and curled up in the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room near the bed. Pulling a light blanket around her shoulders, she settled in to watch and wait.

* * *

The darkness in which he felt himself resting comfortably gradually faded as a muted green light suffused the room. His eyelids were heavy with sleep but he felt compelled to open them. She was there in front of him, floating, holding out her arms to him. He tried to reach for her but she slipped from his grasp. He wanted to cry out, to hold her, to pull her against his body once more, but her image shimmered, became transparent and dissolved.

Light blinded him and he found himself in the land rover, trading places with Marie, outlining his plan to deal with the latest threat from his past as he pulled his pistol from the glove box and loaded the magazine.

They argued and he was vehement, "We don't have a choice!" Her final words echoed in his head, _Yes, you do. – _just as the sickening crack of a sniper's bullet severed her spinal cord, killing her instantly. His stomach did somersaults as once again their vehicle burst through the bridge rail and plummeted into the river. His desperate efforts to push open the doors on the sinking land rover were nearly futile. Once he succeeded in escaping the sinking vehicle with Marie, his valiant attempts to resuscitate his lover were ineffective.

He floated in the river and watched as Marie's body disappeared into the murky green water. His soul shattered, he opened his mouth to scream, water rushed in drowning him.

* * *

As Nicky watched the man sleeping on her bed, her thoughts went back to that night in Paris at the Treadstone safe house when Bourne showed up claiming that he did not remember his past, much less the mission arranged by his alter ego, John Michael Kane. He'd stood toe to toe with Alexander Conklin, the man behind Treadstone, demanding answers.

"_Who am I?"_

As she watched the two men argue, she alternated between sympathy and fear.

"You failed!" Conklin had really laid it down hard, raging at Bourne, egging him on, pushing him to the edge, pushing him to remember. He'd even gone so far as to knock Bourne's hand to the side, regardless of the loaded weapon he held. Determined to drag the truth out, Conklin had had the balls to call Jason Bourne a malfunctioning weapon, a **failure**! He demanded to know what happened in Marseilles.

Jason had responded just as vehemently, "I don't remember – what happened – in Marseilles!"

She had watched Bourne closely, watched and listened, knowing some of what the Treadstone agents had been through. She was convinced he was telling the truth, that he really did not remember. She had read something about traumatic amnesia affecting individuals in highly stressful situations. She truly believed that Bourne had no idea what had happened on board the yacht until Conklin started filling in the details.

_"You brought John Michael Kane to life! You put together the meeting with Wombosi! You found the security company!" _

_"You picked the yacht as the god-damned strike point!" _

_"You picked the boat, you picked the day – you tracked the crew, the food, the fuel. You told us where, you told us when. You were in, Jason, you were in!"_

Nicky could still see the young man's face as it dawned on him who he was – and what he had done. It still sent shivers up and down her spine.

Her musings on the past were interrupted by whimpering and movement from the bed. The digital clock on the nightstand read near 4 AM. The injured man tossed restlessly under the blankets, in the throes of some dream. His cheeks were bright with fever. She touched his forehead, not liking the heat of his skin. In the bath room she ran towels under the cold water tap. She laid one gently across Jason's forehead, placing another against his chest and neck.

Bourne's eyes fluttered open and she could see the effort it was taking to process his whereabouts. She placed a hand on his chest as he tried to sit up, tried to get away. "It's okay, Jason. You're in Berlin, at the Westin – you're safe," she spoke softly, hoping she was right about the 'safe' part. He blinked and comprehension dawned. Nodding his understanding, he relaxed a little, settling back on the bed.

"You were dreaming," she continued. He squeezed his eyes shut tight against the memories. Nicky didn't push it. "You're still running fever," she changed the subject. "I recommend aspirin – and water."

"I need – the bathroom," he whispered. Nicky watched the red deepen on his cheeks and she guessed his trouble. "All that water," he added apologetically.

"You think you can make it, or should I offer my shoulder again?" she asked as she removed the cold compresses.

"I'll take the help – to get to the door," he responded. Holding his injured arm tightly to his side, Bourne pushed away the blankets. Looking down, he realized he was nearly naked. "I – uh – seem to be missing…"

"Your pants are soaking in the tub. Had a little blood on them." Nicky offered him a hand, which he grasped, using her strength to get up. Now was not the time for modesty, his body was making urgent demands. His breath caught as he gingerly attempted to put his weight on his injured knee. Nicky offered her shoulder, helping him hobble across the room. She stopped in the doorway to the bath, to give him his privacy. When he reappeared, she handed him aspirin and a bottle of water. He leaned against the door jamb and dutifully swallowed the pills.

Jason made his way back to bed without assistance, suddenly catching sight of the photograph Nicky had found in his pocket. It was the last thing he'd expected to see here – and it caught him totally off guard. He picked up the picture as he sat on the edge of the bed, blindsided, his composure shattering, his defenses crumbling.

Nicky saw him holding the picture. "Found that in your pocket," she informed him. "I didn't know you could smile…" She stopped in mid sentence as she watched the picture drop from his trembling hands. The photograph floated to the floor as a strangled cry was torn from the man's throat. Nicky had never heard anything filled with such anguish. Bourne dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying desperately to stem the tide of grief. Tears that could not be held back leaked out.

"_I killed… I killed her_…" he choked on the words, high pitched with sorrow and tears.

"What?" Nicky knew that was not what had happened. She'd heard that the story Jason had told her in the lower level of the Alexanderplatz had been true. This man had lost the woman in the picture – his lover – to a sniper's bullet in India. "What are you talking about?"

Bourne was too consumed by his grief to answer. Nicky's heart went out to him, this tough-as-nails assassin. His defenses had been stripped away. He'd reached the end of his rope. His heartfelt "I don't want to do this anymore," spoken to Conklin in Paris – it ripped her heart out every time she thought of that night. There was something about this hard man that made her want to reach out to him, help him.

Before she was even aware of what she was doing, she was sitting next to him, gently laying a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, he leaned against her, in desperate need of the comfort of human touch. She took one of his hands, threading her fingers through his. He gripped her hand tightly, as a drowning man would hold on to the rope of the life preserver. She lightly rubbed his back, mindful of the recent gunshot wound and all the bruises. He tried valiantly to brush away the tears, but it was no use. The dam burst. "_Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh God!" _he sobbed. He laid his head in her lap, and he wept. Nicky gently brushed her fingers through his hair, telling him it was okay to let the tears flow. Reaching behind her, she pulled the blanket around his shaking shoulders.

As the minutes ticked by slowly, Nicky kept up a quiet litany of soothing words. Gradually Bourne's tears stopped as exhaustion claimed him. His breathing evened out, only occasionally catching in his chest. She eased him back on the bed, covering him with the blanket. She tried to pull her hand away from his grasp, but felt his fingers tighten. She did not let go.

She remained on the bed, contemplating this strange turn of events. Just a few short days ago, this man had made her cower in terror, had shoved her roughly into a storage room, demanding information from her. She had never been so scared in her entire life. Now she held his hand, helping him through a nightmare.

The aspirin kicked in, she could feel his skin cooling off a bit. She slowly extricated her fingers from his, and he rolled to his side, settling into what she hoped was a deeper, healing sleep. She picked up the fallen picture and put it back on the nightstand, face down. Returning to her chair, she settled back in and closed her eyes.

But she did not sleep. Her mind refused to stop racing. So much had happened in the last few days as a result of her involvement with Treadstone. Her world had gone sideways. Her thoughts returned to Paris.

She remembered diving under the desk when the bullets flew.

She remembered the hail of machine gun fire as she crouched low, hands over her ears, curled into as small a ball as possible to avoid being hit by stray bullets. She remembered praying that she was out of the kill zone, that Bourne would not turn on her next. She remembered how deathly quiet it got when the gunfire stopped.

When she no longer heard movement in the hall, she crawled across the floor to assist Conklin, feeling for a pulse, relieved when she felt his steady heartbeat under her exploring fingers. As he regained consciousness, Conklin shrugged off her efforts to hold him back. He was testy, upset and angry that Bourne had cold-cocked him – that Bourne would even think about leaving the agency. After all, Bourne had been his best.

Conklin left the apartment – and disappeared, leaving her alone with three dead bodies and a mess of shattered drywall and broken stair railings. She heard later that Conklin had been killed. She never got to read that action report. The buzz about his death alternated between a hit as the result of another agency contract, and a hit by Bourne in retaliation for past actions.

She remembered Ward Abbot showing up a few hours later, and suddenly the bodies were gone and the apartment was cleaned out and she was being reassigned. Different duties, different locale, different people. An accepted part of Agency protocol when an op was completed – or shut down. She settled in to her new assignment, believing that the chapter with Jason Bourne was closed – until that day only a short while ago when Abbott once again appeared in her life.

Now here she was, in Berlin – and for the second time in days, alone with the assassin Jason Bourne.

She watched the rise and fall of the blanket covering him as he slept, evidence of his steady breathing. He hadn't asked questions of her, or demanded answers this time - yet. She remembered parts of his file, she knew where he had been assigned and the results of each assignment. He'd ended more than a few lives. He killed for a living. She did not know how much of that he remembered, and wondered just how much she dared share with him. She toyed with putting a call in to Pamela Landy.

Bourne had sought her out, had literally dragged himself, injured and bleeding, from Moscow to Berlin, winding up in her hotel room – seeking help and a place to rest. He'd put himself at her mercy. He'd even apologized, for goodness sake. She wondered if she could ever forgive or forget what he did. Her rational side understood that he was looking for answers – answers that would provide him with clues to his identity, answers that would fill in the gaps and maybe explain the reasons why people were out to kill him. But he had held a gun to her head demanding those answers, had threatened to kill her, had not once considered the terror he was putting her through.

A soft but determined knock startled her out of her reverie. She checked her watch. It was early, not quite 6:15 A.M. She had no idea who could be at her door – or what they could possibly want. She went to the door quietly and checked the peep hole.

Pamela Landy stood outside in the hall.

Her presence caught Nicky completely by surprise. She hadn't seen Landy since the Deputy Director had left for Moscow, and had assumed the woman had returned to the States. She opened the door as far as the safety catch would permit. Before she could voice her questions, Pamela had one of her own. "How is he?"

Nicky regarded the older woman for long moments. Obviously Pamela knew that Bourne was here, and it raised the hair on the back of Nicky's neck. When had she become so protective of the man in her room? When had she adopted this mama bear status? "How do you know he's here?"

"You going to let me in?"

"Depends. What do you want with him?"

"Let me assure you, Nicky, I mean him no harm. I pulled our agents off so he could travel back to Berlin without feeling a tail. You know, you're it now. You're the only connection he's got to his past. I bet dollars to doughnuts he'd come back here to find you."

Nicky pushed the door closed and unfastened the security bolt. Re-opening the door, she stood back, allowing Pam entrance to the room. She motioned with her finger to her lips, hoping Pam would not disturb the sleeping man.

Landy saw the bloody evidence of Bourne's wounds in the waste basket and raised her eyebrows. "I hadn't realized he was injured," she kept her voice low. "Is it bad? Does he need a doctor?" Pam could not tell much from her view of the bed. The light in the room was dim, and Bourne was curled on his side, under several blankets.

"It's bad enough," Nicky reported. "Gunshot wound. He's lost a lot of blood. Some infection has set in. But he was pretty adamant about not calling a doctor. I can't blame him. He doesn't have any idea who he can trust. He had Marie. Now she's gone."

"And I'm betting he feels pretty damned guilty about that," Pam commented, remembering all too clearly Bourne's conversation with Abbott – a conversation recorded and delivered to her room. A conversation in which Ward Abbott had laid the guilt of Marie's death squarely at Bourne's feet. _"You killed her. The minute you climbed into her car. The minute you entered her life, she was dead." _

Nicky was not sure how to take Pam's words. It actually sounded like the deputy director might be feeling sorry for the man who was single handedly responsible for turning more than one Agency op upside down.

Pamela Landy wasted no time in getting to her point, giving Nicky no chance to ask the woman to explain. "Okay. He's here, and hopefully will stay put for a while. How are your supplies holding up? Is there anything I can help with? What do you need?"

"Honestly? Antibiotics. I managed to get a handful of penicillin pills earlier, but he could use more. Something like Gatorade would be better than water. Food. Clothing. Any of that doable?"

"Watch me," the bureau chief replied as she slipped out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Nicky reset the security bolt and leaned against the door, wondering if she should wait for Pamela to return, or wake Jason now and leave the next move up to him. As if on cue, Bourne rolled to his back and sighed almost contentedly. He opened his eyes and saw Nicky watching him. "Feels good to sleep."

"You probably need more that just those couple hours."

"I take what I can get." Bourne looked around, getting a better handle on the room. Nicky watched him assess his surroundings. He said nothing about hearing their recent visitor, so she chose to keep quiet about Landy's appearance, figuring it would be one less thing for him to deal with.

"You must be hungry," she commented.

"A bit."

"I recommend the chicken soup."

"Cure for everything?"

"Can't hurt." Nicky filled a cup with water in the kitchen area of the room, setting it to heat in the microwave oven. She opened a packet of instant soup mix, adding it to the hot water once the microwave beeped.

She stirred the contents and turned to find Bourne watching her. "It's instant. It's all I've got at the moment."

He shrugged, easing himself into a sitting position. Nicky was surprised at how quickly he seemed to be recovering. His color was a little better; his eyes, while still red-rimmed and bloodshot, were not quite so sunken. He moved gingerly but it was a vast improvement over not being able to move at all.

She handed him the cup. "It's a little thin. I would imagine it might be better with salt, maybe a few crackers, some flavor…"

"It'll be fine," he responded, concentrating on the steam rising from the cup, totally missing Nicky's attempt to make him smile.

Jason took an experimental sip of the soup, realizing that she was right – it was thin and only faintly reminded him of chicken soup. But it was hot and his body needed the nourishment. This was why he had returned to Berlin. To recuperate – and to talk with Nicky, to get some answers from the one person in his past who was still alive. He knew he'd treated her roughly when he'd confronted her a few days ago. He owed her a serious apology. He hoped she had a big enough heart to forgive, if not forget. But now that he had opportunity, the right words eluded him.

Nicky was the first to break the awkward silence. "I want to apologize for leaving the picture there – on the table."

"Hey, don't," he caught and held her gaze. "It's okay. I'm the one who should apologize," he looked down, adding quietly, "for a lot of things." He took another sip of the contents of the cup.

"Just don't ever hold a gun to my head again," she said with a smile that took some of the bite out of her words. Bourne accepted her chiding, nodding his agreement.

"I am sorry about Marie," Nicky felt a need to offer her sympathy. "You certainly looked – happy."

Bourne studied the cup in his hand. For a moment, Nicky wondered if he'd rather not discuss that chapter of his past.

He shook his head. "Fuck it. I owe you more than an apology, I owe you some explanation. Those were good days," he admitted. "She was – my anchor. She didn't have to, but she stuck with me, helped me through a lot of shit. Dreams – fucking nightmares, really. Bad moods. I couldn't – still can't – get a hold of everything."

Nicky sat down on the edge of the bed, letting Jason talk, figuring he would eventually get to the questions he needed to ask.

"We tried to stay low. We moved around a lot. That was hard on her. I – I couldn't shake the nightmares. She was getting worried, I could see it. God, she was so full of life! Everything should have been better for her. I was dragging her down."

Nicky shook her head as she thought about the smile on Bourne's face in the picture. "It couldn't have been all bad."

Jason finished the contents of the cup, glancing up at Nicky. "Yeah, there were good days." He paused. "I – I miss her," he whispered, turning away.

"I know," Nicky replied softly. There was nothing she could do, no words she could say, to help ease the pain of loss. She took the cup from Jason's hands. "You want more?"

Jason cleared his throat, shook his head. "What I want – what I would like – are some answers. Please."

Nicky set the cup on the table and pulled one of the chairs next to the bed. Taking a seat, she folded her hands in her lap as she considered how to answer Bourne's plea. "Asking like that is a lot better than the last time," she commented, absently rubbing the arm that Bourne had gripped so tightly only a few short days ago.

"Nicky, I do apologize." Jason's statement was heartfelt. "I won't blame you if you hold that against me. And I won't press you for anything else. I'll get out of your life as soon as I'm able."

"The information in your file is classified," she began, trying not to think about his inevitable departure. "You know, it's funny. Here I am, concerned about disclosing classified information to you – when you are the one who did the stuff that filled the file."

"Damn it!" Jason grimaced, hitting the mattress with a balled fist. "I can't piece the things together! What I did – everything – is so damned hazy. Fucking memory is swiss cheese!"

Nicky could sense his frustration. She felt compelled to share what she remembered, even if it only helped ease that frustration a bit. "You were – are – a highly trained assassin," she started with something familiar. "Your first mission was in Geneva, about six years ago. You had asked about Berlin. You never worked in Berlin. You mentioned Neski – have you figured out what that was all about?"

Jason seemed somewhat reluctant to confide what he had discovered. "It involved both Abbott and Conklin, the guys you worked for."

Nicky understood his reticence then, but was not surprised at the evidence of either Conklin's or Abbott's extra curricular activities.

"They were in on some secret deal with a Russian, Gretkov," Jason continued. "Profitable all around. Neski was going to blow the whistle. That's where I came in. Conklin had me kill Neski – and his wife got in the way. I made it look like a murder/suicide." He looked down at his hands. "I'm not proud of that. But it was my job."

Nicky was only too well aware of his job, and thought it best not to dwell on certain aspects of his past. "That was over seven years ago," she continued, hoping she was filling in some blanks for Bourne. "Pamela Landy found another source recently that linked Abbott with some stolen funds, oil leases, and the Neski murders." She thought for a moment, putting the pieces together. "Abbott set it all up – set you up, didn't he?"

Jason nodded. "Looks that way. They sent a sniper to kill me, to take me out of the picture. Throw suspicion on me, they get off scott free. Marie – Marie got in the way." His voice lowered to a whisper. "It should have been me."

Nicky heard the anguish in Bourne's words, watched his knuckles turn white as he gripped the blanket tightly in an attempt to hold his pain at bay. Hoping to take his mind off that tragedy for a while, she returned to the discussion of his file. "You were sent to Geneva. Target eliminated. Your assignments all read like that. You were good. Well, okay, maybe 'good' is a relative term. Your success rate was high."

He considered this. "I wasn't the only assassin involved in Treadstone. What do you…" his question was interrupted by a knock on the door. Bourne was instantly on alert. He sat up, pushing the covers away.

"Easy, Jason," Nicky placed her hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. "You're in no condition to run, health-wise or other."

Bourne remembered that he was wearing nothing but his underwear.

Rising from her seat, Nicky added, "Besides, it's a friend."

Nicky made sure it was indeed, Pamela Landy, before unlocking the door. The Deputy Director entered with a bag in each hand, and a file folder under her arm. "This should take care of your shopping list," she grinned at Nicky. "Pays to have friends in high places." She glanced at the bed and nodded at the now-wide-awake Jason Bourne.

"Jason Bourne. Pamela Landy." As she made the introductions, Nicky took the packages from Pam, set them on the table, and began removing the contents. Gatorade, penicillin, granola bars, jeans, t-shirts, socks and underwear, Pamela had found it all. And a med kit with antibiotics and Vicodin.

"You'll pardon me if I don't get up?" Bourne had pulled the blanket nearly up to his chin. Nicky almost laughed at his sudden modesty.

Pam Landy stared at the elusive Jason Bourne. He certainly didn't look like the kind of person who could easily turn the Agency upside down. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, with dark circles underneath, making him look like a skeleton. His skin was pale, cheeks highlighted by a faint flush of fever. His shoulder was covered with gauze through which she could see the evidence of a gunshot wound. She smiled. "You'll pardon me if I say you look like shit?"

"Goes with the territory," he replied.

"He looks a lot better now than he did last night," Nicky commented.

"Thanks to some expert care that I probably don't deserve," Jason replied.

Nicky blushed. "I should change that dressing on your shoulder soon."

"I'd like to grab a quick shower before you do," Jason responded. "And then raid the kitchen."

Landy stood at the foot of the bed, a thoughtful look on her face. "Nicky, please feel free to call room service for whatever either of you want. The Agency will handle the tab." Nicky nodded her thanks as Pam tapped the file folder she held. "It's all in here," the woman began, looking directly and pointedly at the man on the bed.

Nicky was puzzled by the Director's statement, but Jason knew exactly what she was talking about. Pam continued, "Your name is not Bourne."

She had both Nicky's and Jason's immediate attention.

"It's Webb. David Webb."

Nicky watched Jason's face. His was a look of surprise, followed by intense concentration.

Searching his memories, finding nothing solid to hang on to, he tucked away the bits and pieces of new memory, focusing on Pamela and her file folder. "What do you want from me?" he asked.

"You were Conklin's best, his number one. Every job he gave you – well, let's say you did what you were trained to do. Until the job on the yacht."

Jason fiddled with the edge of the blanket covering him, studying the threads on the hem. Nicky looked back and forth between them, puzzled.

"Something happened," Pam continued gently. "We want to know what. We want to know why. And we want you back."

Jason considered her words. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"And if I don't come back?"

"Then I guess you don't come back. But don't make that decision in haste. Give yourself some time. Get back on your feet. Come see me in New York and we'll talk. You have my number." She tapped the file folder, making it clear that it would stay in her possession until that meeting. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch." Landy turned to Nicky. "Tom is staying here for a couple days. If you need anything – anything at all – just ask him. He'll arrange a flight back to Amsterdam for you when you're ready. Stay here as long as you need to."

"That's very generous of you," Nicky thanked the older woman as she headed for the door.

"It's worth it," Pam smiled. "Take good care of him." And she was gone.

"Well," Nicky turned to Jason, hands on hips. "You heard the woman. What do you want for breakfast?"

"Breakfast. It's been so long… Eggs. Toast. The works."

"Got it," she picked up the phone and connected with room service, placing an order. She chose to go down to the restaurant herself to bring it back to the room. At Jason's puzzled look, she explained, "It will give you some privacy. Unless you want help in the shower." She grinned. And finally was rewarded with a smile in return that made her heart skip a beat.

"I think I can handle it," he decided. "Besides, you won't be gone long."

Nicky returned from the restaurant with a platter of food – steak and eggs, hash brown potatoes, juice and fruit. Enough to fill two empty stomachs and then some. Pushing the door open, she was greeted by an empty bed. A closed bathroom door and water running in the shower reassured her that Bourne was still around. She set the food tray on the small table and filled the room's coffee pot, setting it to perk.

The running water stopped, and minutes later the door opened. Jason limped out of the small room, dressed in the dark jeans Pamela had provided. His hair was freshly washed, a towel around his neck caught the stray water droplets. He held damp gauze pads tightly against his injured shoulder. His feet and torso were bare. Nicky tried not to stare. Jason noticed. "I – uh – seem to have gathered a few bruises of late. Moscow was not kind to me."

"I don't think I want to know," Nicky replied, somewhat relieved that he thought her stare was due to the bruises.

"Coffee smells good," he sniffed appreciatively

"It'll be ready soon. Let me rebandage that shoulder first," she said as she pulled a chair around. He sat and toweled his hair off as Nicky gathered her supplies. She pulled the extra gauze and old dressing away from his shoulder, biting her lip as she concentrated on cleaning the wound again. "I'd like to stitch some of this up, but I'd advise using the Vicodin Pam brought before I do."

"Maybe later," Jason said, trying not to flinch as she worked. "Just cover it for now. My stomach needs attention."

"Sure, just let me tape this," Nicky agreed. She tended to the gauze covering, fixing it in place. Picking a sleeveless shirt from of the pile brought by Landy, she helped Jason pull it on.

She took a portion of the food from the platter and pushed the rest toward Jason. As he dug into breakfast, Nicky poured a cup of coffee for each of them.

"Your file," Nicky began as she stirred a touch of cream into her coffee. "The part I know. It starts with Paris. There is nothing from, you know, before…"

"Like where I came from?" Jason prompted between bites. "Like the name 'David Webb'?"

"No, nothing like that. Nothing about 'Jason Bourne' being an assumed name. Although that does not surprise me. I have no knowledge about where you came from, what you'd done before, how you got involved with Treadstone. There were hints, stuff that Conklin and his team said when they thought I wasn't within earshot. The training must have been exhaustive. Thorough. I recall hearing some one mentioning "attack dogs" on one occasion. I assumed they were not referring to four footed canines."

"I'm not looking for all the answers, Nicky, just a start," Jason said as he worked his way through the steak and eggs.

"For a start, what do I call you? David? Jason?" she asked, wondering if the name Pamela tossed out would eventually ring any bells.

The man sitting next to her stopped in mid-chew, a thoughtful look on his face. "I guess I've been Jason Bourne for a number of years. It's the first name I found on a passport in the bank in Zurich. It's the name I was living under in Paris." He shrugged. "I'll stick with that for now."

After breakfast, Nicky and Jason spent the rest of the morning talking. She answered his questions as truthfully and completely as she could. Sometimes she could see a light come on as a particular incident linked to a memory, but she could also see the moments of disappointment when certain things did not add up. And she could also tell that some of what she was telling him made him very uncomfortable.

After nearly two hours of grilling, Nicky stood and stretched, trying to stifle her yawning. Neither one of them had slept much during the previous night.

Jason had gone quiet in the last few minutes, lost in thought, processing something she'd said. "Jason?" He didn't respond. "Jason?"

"Sorry. What?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he replied softly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He shook his head as if to rid himself of certain memories. "Serbian generals, Irish journalists – all those things are coming back."

"Jason," Nicky said gently, "you look exhausted. And I should work on your shoulder."

"You really want to stitch it up?"

"It'll be better in the long run," she replied. "I've had training. I don't do it every day, but I'm pretty handy with a needle."

Jason shrugged. Nicky handed him the Vicodin and a bottle of water. He returned to the bed and stretched out on his side. It did not take long for the drug to work its way into his system.

The med kit contained antiseptic and antibiotic, sterile needles, surgical gloves, and monofilament nylon for stitches. Working quickly and carefully, Nicky sutured the wound as best as she could, tying knots in ends as she went. Finally satisfied, she slathered the wound with antiseptic ointment and once more covered his shoulder in gauze and tape. Bourne had remained quiet and still as she worked, but his jaw was tight and his face had gone pale again. He was fighting pain and sleep at the same time and losing.

Nicky knew what she needed to do as she tucked things back into the med kit. "I am beat. I vote for a nap."

Jason looked at her, trying to focus, trying to concentrate. "Yeah. But – I've sorta – taken over the bed." He looked around the room. "I can move. I'll take the chair. Or the floor."

"Nonsense," Nicky replied, shaking her head. "You need a good rest so that all my hard work here will have positive results. Stay put. Anyway, it's a king size bed. How about you get half, I get half?" Nicky flopped onto the bed before Bourne had a chance to say anything. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Oh, my gosh, is that another smile I see on the stern face of Jason Bourne?"

Jason couldn't help but smile. He shook his head and settled back on the bed.

Nicky tossed a blanket over him. "You don't snore, do you?" she asked, grinning.

He did not answer. He had already closed his eyes, and was literally out within seconds. Nicky settled back, staring at the ceiling, very much aware of Bourne next to her. She willed herself to relax, gradually settling into a light sleep.

Even though the night had been nearly sleepless, and the day so far the same, Nicky could not stay asleep. She could not get comfortable. She felt restless and jumpy, thanks in part to the knowledge that the man sleeping on the other half of the bed had been a member of a kill squad, had been responsible for the deaths of more than just a few people. She thought of the Neski murders and how easy it had been for Bourne to not only take the life of the man he'd been instructed to kill, but to also end the life of the man's wife. And if she were having a difficult time coming to grips with this, she could not imagine what must be going on in the mind of the man she knew as Jason Bourne.

The more time she spent talking with him, the less her fear of him became. Common sense told her to keep her distance, but at times there was such a vulnerability about the man that she wanted to take him in her arms just to ease his pain for a while. Lying here on the bed next to him was not helping.

She rolled over and got up, silently making her way to the bathroom. She took a shower and put on fresh clothes, which made her feel a little better. It was mid afternoon and her stomach was growling. It had been a long time since breakfast. She grabbed the room key and let herself out as quietly as possible. Bourne remained as she had left him, seemingly dead to the world. She hoped he would stay asleep. He was badly in need of all the rest he could get.

She walked slowly down the stairs to the lobby, having no trouble identifying several Agency personnel as she went. Tom Cronin, Pamela Landy's right hand man, sat on a sofa in the lobby, reading a local paper. The man she knew only as Teddy was perched in front of a laptop, probably using the hotel's Internet access to surf the Web. Other Agency personnel were strategically located throughout the corridors of the hotel, all looking like they belonged there. All because of Jason Bourne.

Cronin rose from the sofa as she approached. "Everything okay?"

Nicky shrugged. "Define 'okay.'"

Tom grinned. "You were kidnapped by an assassin. You now have said assassin sleeping in your room. He has a gunshot wound that required doctoring, which you provided. You've been uprooted and carted around from Amsterdam to Berlin, with little say in the matter. I suppose I should ask, 'Are you okay?'"

Flopping down on the sofa, Nicky sighed. "It's been a long couple of days." She looked up the winding staircase in the direction of her room. "He scares me. And yet, he is so..."

"Don't let him fool you, Nicky," Tom interrupted with a warning. "I don't know the whole Treadstone story, but they didn't pick their agents lightly or haphazardly. A lot of thought went in to choosing those who could get through the program. He's been trained well…"

"Yeah, I know," Nicky finished, "to be invisible. And to kill." A chill ran up her spine. She rose from the sofa, attempting to shake off her dark thoughts. "I'm going to get something to eat, and take something up for him. Hopefully, he'll still be there."

Tom smiled conspiratorially. "If he leaves, we'll know."

"I've heard that before," Nicky pointed out.

Tom shook his head. "We know what to watch for now. And it's us, not just the local police."

Nicky nodded. "I'll let you know about that ticket back to Amsterdam as soon as I can."

"Take all the time you need," Tom reiterated Landy's statement. "Just keep Bourne around as long as you can."

As she headed toward the restaurant, Nicky wondered if – and how – the Agency would be able to hold Bourne here against his will. She tucked that thought in the back of her mind and concentrated on the menu given to her by the wait staff. She ordered a sandwich with soup and salad, choosing to eat her meal in the restaurant. When she finished, she ordered a sandwich to go and returned to her room.

Bourne was still asleep on his half of the bed, breathing deeply and evenly. Yawning, Nicky placed the sandwich she'd picked up for him in the small refrigerator, removed her shoes, and slipped back into bed.

The room was warm and dark, but sleep still eluded her. She was about to give up trying when she felt Jason stir. He mumbled something unintelligible, shaking his head. Nicky inched closer, laying a hand lightly on his uninjured shoulder. "Shhhhh, Jason, it's alright, you're okay," she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. He nestled close, head against her shoulder, slipping back into a deeper sleep.

Nicky found herself nearly curled right next to Jason Bourne. She knew she should move back, but didn't want to chance waking him, so she stayed put, finally drifting off into a sleep of her own.

She woke instantly to the movement of the bed as Jason stretched. Sunlight was streaming through the partially drawn drapes. Bourne opened his eyes and looked at her, momentarily startled until he got his bearings. Nicky watched his features go from those of the smiling young man in the picture with Marie, to the hardened visage of a man who had doled out and seen too much death. She eyed him warily, instinctively drawing back. He rolled over quickly and got up.

"You're leaving," she said, a statement, not a question.

He kept his back to her. "It's time. My coming here was – a predictable move. Landy knew it. I never should have come."

"Where else would you have gone?" she asked gently. When he did not respond, she asked a safer question, "How's the shoulder feel?"

"Tender. Sore. I'll live." He hobbled into the bathroom and closed the door.

Nicky pushed the blanket away and rolled to her feet, running a hand through her disheveled hair. She fixed another pot of coffee and laid out more gauze and tape. It wasn't long before Bourne returned to the main room. Nicky immediately noticed the change in his demeanor, felt it like the temperature in the room had dropped 10 degrees. He was once more cool and self assured, moving with catlike grace, evidence of his injuries nearly gone. This was no longer the vulnerable wounded man who had collapsed on her floor two days ago. This was the Jason Bourne who had held a gun to her head in the lower levels of the train station.

She swallowed hard, attempting to remain calm. "Let me change the dressing on your shoulder."

He nodded and sat down, aloof, avoiding eye contact.

Nicky hoped her hands wouldn't shake too much as she pulled away the old bandage. The shoulder wound looked better – more than likely it still hurt like hell, but infection had been kept at bay and the sutures were holding. He'd have a scar, no doubt about that – one to match other scars already on his body. She applied a generous amount of antibiotic to his shoulder before covering it again. Jason remained quiet and unmoving.

"There's a sandwich in the fridge," she informed him, trying to keep things light. "Hungry?"

He frowned, looking at the door. "Did you have room service deliver?"

"No. You were sleeping so sound last night, and I – well, I needed some air. I didn't want to disturb you. I went down to the restaurant and brought some things back. And there's some fruit here from yesterday's breakfast."

"I never heard you leave, or come back," Jason mused. "Dangerous in my line of work." He rose from the chair and picked up a tee-shirt from the supplies Pamela had left. Nicky bit back an offer to help as he slowly pulled it on.

"You were tired – and drugged," she noted. "When the resistance is low, the body shuts down, regardless. And I think you knew you were safe here."

"Maybe," he said absently, taking a banana from the counter and peeling it. Nicky pulled the sandwich from the refrigerator and set it on the table. Bourne nodded his thanks. Picking up a small plastic bag from one of the chairs, Nicky filled it with the remaining medical supplies, including the antibiotics.

"You still get the headaches?" she asked as she tossed the aspirin bottle into the bag.

"Yes," he admitted. "Not as bad, not constant. But I still get them."

"Take this stuff with you when you leave. It's what's left of the penicillin, and some things to keep you going." She laid the bag on the table. "Those stitches should come out in a week or so. Keep the wound clean and dry till then." Grabbing one of her shopping bags, she walked quickly into the bathroom, locking the door behind her, fully expecting never to see Jason Bourne again.

She took her time in the shower, dressing slowly, delaying her return to the room as long as she could, to give Bourne time to eat and go. She hated to admit it, but he really did scare her. Tom Cronin was right to warn her against any kind of feeling for this deadly assassin.

When she no longer heard noise from the outer room, she opened the door. To her surprise, Bourne was still there. He had finished his meal and donned a sweater. His coat was draped over his arm. He was ready to leave, but waiting for something.

She looked at him. "Is Pamela Landy's offer that bad?" she asked. "She has all the information you need. She has access to doctors who might be able to help you with this type of amnesia. Maybe what she has will jar your memory and everything will fall into place."

"I can't!" he snapped, his fists balled, his eyes cold and hard. "I will not be a bug they can put under a microscope, poking me to see what went wrong!"

"Okay. Point taken." She kept her distance. "You know, they're watching this room. They're downstairs in the lobby and probably in all the corridors. Maybe it would be easier to slip out after dark."

Jason shook his head. "I've intruded on enough of your space, your life, for a while, I think," he countered, fixing his eyes on hers. She did not look away. "Thank you," he whispered after long moments of silence. "You have gone above and beyond, done more than you probably ever dreamed of in your job description. That first night," he looked away, embarrassed. Nicky was once again face to face with the vulnerable Bourne. "You have no idea how much your caring, your concern means to me. And I am truly very sorry for the way I've treated you."

"I can't pretend that bit with the gun never happened," she said. "But knowing what I know now, I can understand. As far as the doctoring goes, you are welcome. I would say, 'Anytime,' but I would rather you not show up on my doorstep in the future with a gunshot wound."

Jason Bourne smiled once again.

"I'm not going to ask where you are going, or what you will do," Nicky continued. "I know better. But I will tell you to take care of yourself. I'm going back to Amsterdam. You know, in case you ever find yourself in the vicinity. For you, my door is always open – even when it's locked." She grinned.

Jason shook his head. "You know what I am, Nicky. You know what I've done. You've seen what I am capable of doing. _How can you not be afraid of me_?"

Nicky let out a sigh. "I've been asking myself that same question. You are a dangerous man, Jason Bourne. I am afraid of who you are. But I've seen who you can be. I've seen someone different – here in the hotel. In that picture, with Marie. And I'd like to think that the man in the picture will find the answers he's looking for." She threw caution to the wind, took several firm steps toward the man in her room, put her arms around him, and hugged him.

After a few moments, he returned her hug. When she backed up and looked at him, he leaned over and kissed her forehead. "You've given me pieces of the puzzle and they're falling into place. For that I will always be grateful. Amsterdam. Got it. I might stop there sometime. You never know."

He grabbed the bag Nicky had prepared for him, opened the door and stepped out in to the hall. Nicky followed, taking his arm as they proceeded down the stairs. He glanced at her, puzzled. "For your protection. In case they try anything funny," she explained. Jason raised his eyebrows, shaking his head.

Tom and Teddy were almost in the same places she'd seen them earlier. They stood as they saw her with Bourne. She was also aware that several other people in the lobby stopped what they were doing to watch, albeit surreptitiously. She felt the muscles in Jason's arms tighten, but his face showed no sign of concern.

"Mister Bourne," Tom approached them as they descended the staircase. His hands were out and open – he was unarmed and letting Bourne know it. He extended his right hand a little farther. "Tom Cronin, CI Ops Officer. My instructions are to offer you a ride to wherever it is you want to go. No strings attached. Compliments of Pamela Landy."

Bourne did not take the offered hand. Tom shrugged as he let his arms fall to his sides.

Looking past Tom, toward Teddy and the door, Bourne spoke, "Give my best to Pam, and my thanks – but no thanks. I'll walk." He gently removed Nicky's hand from his arm, gave it a squeeze, a final thanks, and headed toward the exit. He stopped for a moment and smiled at Nicky. Nodding, he turned and walked out the door.

Glancing at Tom, Nicky could not resist, "I've got twenty bucks that says you'll lose him in one block."


End file.
